


snow and repetitions of snow—

by incalyscent



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Begging, Blow Jobs, Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, I KNOW. i know, Light Dom/sub, Lowercase, Massage, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multiple Orgasms, Naked Male Clothed Female, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Reunion Sex, Wing Grooming, Wing Kink, Wing Oil, Wing Oil As Lube, Wings, but just like a little bit, lassie DO look, local ace does porn, local poet does prose, no beta we die like men, sabe don't look, so if you're into that, this is very much exactly what you'd expect from me, this wanted to be sadder but they're just too damn horny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:13:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25172935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/incalyscent/pseuds/incalyscent
Summary: it’s been six months for her.  he never talks about the way time passes in hell; he always says something cryptic, likefar too longand they leave it at that because he retreats so far into himself sometimes she can’t even see him in his eyes.  so she doesn’t ask.  but she has to wonder if her hands are the softest to ever touch him; if he’s been touched with any tenderness since he left.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 32
Kudos: 293
Collections: Lucifer (TV) Foxy's Collection of Smut





	snow and repetitions of snow—

**Author's Note:**

  * For [venividivictorious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/venividivictorious/gifts).



> this is what they found on the dead man’s desk when the landlord let them in: twenty-eight pages, esoteric and unfollowable, written with perfect penmanship and a total disregard for any reader, as if the intended audience was a population not quite human. _angelic script_ , says the detective, lifting the pages, feeling their heft, and he wonders what he means because it isn’t. his partner nods but ignores him.
> 
> a park bench, white roses, dark coats and white roses, **snow and repetitions of snow—** it’s hard to read but pretty much how they found him dead on a bench in a black coat, the snow falling down.
> 
> twigs and blackbirds, snow and red horses, the ghosts floating up, the snow falling down— the detective is weeping— and the black coat.
> 
> \- richard siken, _the worm king's lullaby_.

when he says,  _ what do you desire? _ there’s no wicked glint in his eye, no sharp-toothed smile. if anything his mouth is a feather curve where she can feel it against her collarbone, his head bowed towards her like something in worship. she says  _ i want to take care of you _ and his answer is to give her his breath, and to only hold her tighter.

there’s a helmet out on the balcony, a scabbard too, but chloe doesn’t worry about that right now. right now, she’s focused on unbuckling gauntlets and guards, removing piece by piece of armour, knowing her reflection in its glossy black surface, and knowing the names of the stars in its etchings. he doesn’t move, because she hasn’t asked him to, but he studies her, something deep and rigid in the way he’s holding himself.

it’s been six months for her. he never talks about the way time passes in hell; he always says something cryptic, like  _ far too long _ and they leave it at that because he retreats so far into himself sometimes she can’t even see him in his eyes. so she doesn’t ask. but she has to wonder if her hands are the softest to ever touch him; if he’s been touched with any tenderness since he left.

she knows the answer, even if she doesn’t like it. she can see it in the shake in his hands. so she takes off each piece of his armour slowly, taking apart the king of hell, stripping him of his shell, until lucifer stands in his wake. with her hands, she puts the devil to rest, if only for a moment. by the time she’s done the look in his eyes is just as naked as he is. but chloe knows him well by now; leans up on her toes to cup his face in her hands, waits and waits until he relaxes and turns his head to kiss her palm, his wings folding into existence as soft as a newborn wave.

the armour there is sharp and harsh silver; the kind that looks like it’s glowing when the moon hits it right. and she knows to move slowly behind him, doesn’t take offence when his eyes go guarded and track her every move like a bird of prey. and she doesn’t take the first lurch of his wings away from her hands personally; how many years did he spend checking over his shoulder? how many years did someone at his back only come accompanied by a knife?

“i’m not going to hurt you.” her voice is low and soft, a blanket laid out on the floor. she watches him, doesn’t treat him like a wild animal, and eventually he presses his wing back into her hand, where she can run her fingers down the armour’s thick leather strap and unbind it from his wing, turning him sharp and dangerous back into white feathers and holy light.

the armour clatters to the floor, disarmed of its lethality now that the strong arch of his wings don’t inhabit them. despite the ash and grime, chloe can’t help but lean her forehead against the space between his wings, letting her breath tremble the down near her nose. and it takes him a minute; she can feel him fight some primal instinct, and knows the exact instant it stops telling him to  _ fight _ or  _ run _ . she curls her arms around him as he melts back into her, his wings going lax enough to trail on the floor on either side of her feet.

“i’m glad you’re home,” she says, her voice muffled by his skin. his hands come up, and had they been so calloused before? they cover her own, resting on the lean edge of his belly, where she can feel him breathing, still a bit hard and fast with something other than exertion.

“glad to  _ be _ home.” his voice is rumbling with just the hint of an accent unusual to him, something harder than his typical lilt. she puts a kiss between his shoulder blades and his wings shake, just from that. fine ash sprinkles the ground. hell was not made for feathers. they’re more grey than white, stuck together, pins misaligned.

“let me clean you up a bit?” he turns in her arms, careful to lift a wing over her head. his eyes are careful still, but he nods, and cradles her jaw, and kisses her like he might break. chloe pours everything she is and everything she knows he is into that kiss, until he whines and pulls back, staying tethered to her by an arm’s reach. she smiles.

he walks backwards with her until he hits the stairs, and takes them one at a time without taking her eyes off her. this is where she doesn’t know if he’s watching her because he wants his eyes on her, or because he doesn’t want to stop looking at her. he catches the bed with his calves, slides back on it, reaches for her and she goes, knees on soft silk, mouth on his shoulder; he curls around her like he’s protecting her from something. maybe he is.

“roll over?” chloe’s voice is barely breath, but he complies anyways. he has his head turned to watch her out of the corner of his eyes. he’s a little stuck between hunter and prey, because he knows that she won’t hurt him but he finds it so hard to believe. he’s always like this at first. things just take time.

“that’s it,” she says, mostly as a warning, a bit just to see if he’ll shiver all the way past his skin at her words. he does. she puts her hands on his back, and when he doesn’t flinch or thrash, chloe pushes her thumbs into the muscle connecting back to wing, and slings a leg over his thighs to sit astride them. he huffs, flesh twitching, tension fighting against her hands. he is far too used to pain; chloe watches the brace for it fold up his face, watches astonishment take its place.

“okay?”

he nods, quick against the pillow he’d laid himself on. she touches the long feathers draped down his back and both his wings flex, rumpling sheets, gathering tension across his shoulders and in the twitch of his jaw. and she waits. waits until his feathers stop being blades against her calves, until his gaze rolls forward and he stops watching her like she might kill him. 

she starts with the little feathers that climb against his skin. he told her once those are the ones that bother him the most when they’re out of line. there, she can coax the gunk from his preen glands, unclog them from ash and grit and pet the oil she gets from him through his feathers. he actually groans when she clears one out after a few minutes of gentle coaxing, and chloe feels a smile light upon her face, just for a second.

“feel good?” she tips her head to watch his face, but he just grumbles something and very deliberately lets some of the tension out of his wings. starlight streams in from the window and glints off his feathers, dulled like a well-loved knife. he’s sometimes uncharacteristically quiet, so she lets him be quiet, murmurs a gentle encouragement until his eyes go half mast and far away.

his feathers kiss chloe’s knuckles as she drops them to his lower back. his eyes go sharp again, just for a moment. her hands are just a little slippery with oil, so it’s easy to dig her fingers into his flesh and push against his locked up muscles. there was no point to trying to mesh the pins and barbs of his feathers together if they keep flinching and bristling in time with his anxiety. she learned that the hard way.

she repeats up his back, rolling her thumbs over his shoulders. she avoids his ribs, knowing well what a wing to the face feels like from personal experience. she just repeats, over and over, moulding him like clay, until his wings stop twitching and his jaw goes lax.

“i’m going to do your wings now,” chloe says, and just catches the edge of his dirty grin from where she can see the crescent of his face. and that’s  _ good _ , even if it makes her roll her eyes. it means he’s not lost in some dark place in his head. it means she doesn’t have to shine a light and see him there, broken in some way she doesn’t fully understand.

she presses into where his wings connect to his back, feeling tight, well used muscle beneath. he lets out a ragged breath when it finally gives, stretching out his wings and giving them a little shake. he politely tucks them back so she can reach every part, so she does, pressing gentle fingers along their arches, rubbing a thumb into each wrist, listening to him sigh and watching him as he slowly goes boneless.

its then that she can start going through his feathers, gently dipping underneath his wings to gather more oil to run through them until they lay flat, gorgeous and gleaming in the silver light of the moon. his eyes shut, lips quietly parted, and if chloe focuses hard enough she swears he gives off his own light like a star.

by the time his eyes crack back open, chloe is starting to notice his oil comes more freely, and there’s a gentle tint of red high on his cheekbones. his wings push up to her hands at the same time his hips tip forward, and that’s normal too. there comes a time, every time, in which chloe asks a question and his answer is either a definite no or a resounding yes.

she opens her mouth to ask and his eyes flick over his shoulder and towards her lips. they are blazing, old star red, and she must make a face or a noise or move a muscle, because tension slams back into him.

“sorry,” he hisses, short and quiet, and squeezes his eyes back closed. immediately chloe leans in to push her fingers into his hair, feel the curls gone wild in neglect push up against her palm.

“hey, it’s okay,” she says. her voice is quiet like a breeze.

“i don’t want to scare you.”

“lucifer,” and just her tone makes his eyes open again, wide and vulnerable, and it makes chloe  _ ache _ , soft in her chest, “you can’t scare me.”

his wings relax, pause, before they nudge back into her hands again, and she can’t help but smile as she idly straightens out a few more feathers.

“i know you are good and just and kind,” she says, “and because of that, no part of you is gonna get rid of me.”

he huffs a pathetic noise into the silk beneath his lips. those eyes are still red, but far away, teeth and tongue worrying his lower lip. carefully, she deliberately rubs a thumb over one of his preen glands, and it’s like she’s shocked him; his wings twitch and he sucks air into his throat, and chloe watches as red bleeds from his face to his neck, making freckles stand out on his skin.

“gorgeous,” she breathes, and he actually whines a bit, and she watches his wings shift low, splay out his flight feathers until they shimmer in the starlight.

“can you do what i want?”

“ _ anything _ .” his voice is already rough.

“good boy,” she says, just to hear him bite on a groan. she smiles. “i want you to lay there and look pretty, can you do that?”

his laugh is breathy, his eyes deep and dark and red when they roll up to her face. “i think i can manage that.”

she grins at him, because his laugh is better than fresh rain and cools some of the gradual tension chloe had gathered, as well. sometimes, she carries weariness for him, across the line of her shoulders, despite how she knows not to.

but now, as she runs a flat hand up his spine, feeling every arch and notch of bone under her palm, she knows she can let it go. because when she tangles her fingers in his hair and pushes his face a little more firmly to the sheets he  _ moans _ , and she’s sure there’s no sweeter sound as that, and no sweeter feeling than the hot zing of pleasure that lances through her where his wings brush her skin.

she taps his hip. “hips up?”

he huffs, edged in a laugh. “that’s already far more work than what was asked of me.”

chloe swats at his ass, and his next sound is etched in breathless pleasure. he presses back into that touch, complying to her request at the same time. “don’t be cheeky,” she says, smoothing her hand over the curve of his ass, watching his mouth curl, satisfied; feeling heat coil just tamely in her gut when he wriggles his hips until she grabs a pillow and stuffs it under them.

she slips between his legs and he parts them for her willingly; before her is long planes of starkissed skin, and she swears one day she’ll map out every freckle until he’s a mess, but for now she leans in a presses an open mouthed kiss to the nape of his neck, listens intently for the catch in his breath. she feels more than hears the deep rumble he makes when her hands find his wings again, and his feathers bristle in a way distinctly different than the anxiety. it’s so easy to find warm skin when he does it, and he shudders, bone deep, down deep.

he pushes his hips back into the cradle of hers, where it’s gone flush against his ass. chloe fights the groan, only letting a tendril of it loose, before she puts a firm hand between his shoulder blades and holds him down.

“lay there and look pretty, remember?”

lucifer huffs, and afterwards his breathing kicks up a bit, the filling of his lungs pushing heaving muscle against her hand. “yes.”

“colour?”

“ _ green. _ ” 

this time, when she pushes her thumbs into the base of his wings he makes a low, pleased sound, and chloe notices that the feathers under her hands are damp with oil. he is so beautiful, laying there; arms up and hands clasped loosely in the sheets, his eyes red and far away but still so present. his mouth is curled, hints of a breathless grin on it.

she skates her fingertips over his oil glands and his breath catches and he bucks helplessly into the pillow, a noise snaking out of his mouth.

“you’re very bad at taking directions,” she says, leaning more of her weight onto him to still his hips, fitting her hands over them. he rumbles, a low noise that could be a laugh or a growl.

“semantics of being king.”

“you’re not a king here,” she says quietly, and watches him go still, “you’re just lucifer.”

“ _ please _ .”

“i’m not finished with these,” chloe says coyly, dragging her fingers back up through his wings and pretending, for his sake, not to have noticed how desperate he sounded. he shifts in such a way the pull of his muscles looks like wind over the golden wheat field of his skin. it ends in the shake of his feathers, a flex as she fixes a flight feather.

“get on with it then,” he says, aiming for annoyed, ending up with a plea. she chuckles, and he huffs, still trying the facade, until he watches her lift a hand to her mouth to lick the oil clean from her fingers. she watches in real time as his eyes go black, just a ring of red inferno fire around pitless black.

the taste is atmosphere and static, pillar salt and hot desert, and it makes heat flood chloe’s belly, makes her skin warm up. it makes everything a little bit blurry and a little sharper all at once, and she doesn’t try to stop herself from bending down to lick a stripe over one of his oil glands. it’s instant; the sharp noise he makes, the low splay and shake of his wings.

“ _ chloe _ ,” he rasps, “chloe  _ please _ .”

she drops one slick hand to stroke up the underside of his cock, trapped hard and leaking against the edge of the pillow. he moans, unashamed, but does well not moving, even as she circles her hand around him and places an open mouthed kiss right where his wing joins his body. just one twist of her wrist sets him shaking - she remembers, of course, he hasn’t been touched well since he left.

“spread your legs,” she says, and he scrambles to comply, prompting a laugh from chloe as he nearly bucks her off, and it goes from her to him, and he looks so  _ good _ , disheveled and flushed and smiling.

she watches him bite his lip as she settles between his open thighs. she passes her fingers over his hole and he gasps  _ yes yes yes _ before she even asks the question. he seems to consciously move his wings to skim over her legs, sending white hot lightning pleasure skipping across her nerves. she bunches one hand in feathers, making him gasp, ragged into the sheets, before he chokes on her name when she pushes a finger into him.

she knows it’s nothing, but his face relaxes like he’d been holding onto something; brow smoothed out, mouth open for air, freckles like constellations against the muted red of his skin. she groans at the sight of him, arousal throbbing low between her legs. it’s like he can smell it, and maybe he can, because his tongue darts from his lips, something hot burning in those eyes.

“ _ please _ ,” he says, barely above a whisper, and chloe crooks her finger and rubs just to hear that hoarse shout, just to watch his eyes slam shut and the flutter of his eyelashes against his cheekbones.

“this is what you wanted, huh?” chloe says, barely noticing how roughed out her voice is, but he does; a shiver shakes all the way through his wings, though chloe’s fingers.

“ _ yes _ ,” he breathes, “thought about this all the time. give me another,  _ please _ .”

she slides a second finger into him, and she doesn’t scold him when he bucks back onto her fingers because he’s been so good and she knows he can’t help it. she fucks him slow, dragging a garbled mess of syllables from his lips. his muscles work to keep himself still; his legs shake from keeping himself up on his knees with them so spread.

“you’re being so good for me, lucifer,” she says quietly, before licking a firm stripe over a preen gland, the flavour bursting over her tongue, making her feel drunk on his pheromones. he chokes on a cry, his breathing picking up in that particular way it does when he’s close. “wanna come like this?”

“ _ yes _ ,” he hisses. she gives him a little nip on his ribs, and she sees his cock jump in the shadow of his body. she ignores the crick in her wrist and fucks him harder, faster, watching his fingers curl in the sheets and the way he clenches his jaw.

“not yet,” she says, and he makes an animal noise in his throat, something distinctly  _ barely _ human and settles low in her gut. it’s not fear - she’s not scared of him - rather the opposite. she is reminded that he could kill her with one misplaced wing and yet he is so gentle and careful with her that she doesn’t even think about it.

“chloe,” he whines.

“okay, come for me,” she says, giving a firm curl and drag of her fingers, making him cry out and shake and come onto the sheets below. his wings snap close, trembling, and he transfers half that pleasure to her with the glowing tips of his wings, and chloe moans into the flood of pleasure, dragging one wing close enough to cover her lap until he twitches and snarls out a wounded noise, pulling his wing free. she pulls her fingers out of him.

his breath is ragged and his skin is damp and red with sex, and he’s about the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. his eyes are still shut when she says  _ turn over _ , but he’s careful even if he’s sluggish not to kick her or smack her with a wing as he turns over.

the hunger chloe feels isn’t one of a fox in the desert, but something else - she wants him badly in a way she can’t really explain or express, but her eyes drift down his body and he knows. he spares her a salacious smile around his parted lips and pins his own wrists above his head, showing off the lean lines of his body, and she has no choice but to dive in a kiss him, open mouthed and dirty. he moans into it, arches his back, and she knows he can taste his oil on her tongue.

she licks the salt off his neck, his chest, circles a nipple with her tongue just to hear him groan for it. another nip to his ribcage, several slow, messy, open mouthed kisses down his stomach, and he’s already panting for it, eyes dark and hazy.

“tell me if it’s too much,” she says, before licking the remains of his first orgasm off his cock, making him gasp and squirm, though he is careful not to move his hips.

“ _ fuck _ , chloe.” his voice is wrecked, low and gravel rough. it’s enough to make chloe snake a hand down the front of her pants (which never made it off; desperation is a funny thing) and press two fingers to her clit. the groan in tandem, because he  _ knows _ , and his cock twitches against her lips just from the knowing.

her other hand comes up to steady his cock so she can wrap her lips around the head of it, tasting brine and feeling the heat of it swell against her tongue as he gets hard again for her; what a strange power she holds. the devil helpless under the careful coaxing of her mouth; immobilized, just because she asked. even now she can feel the trembling of his legs and he strains not to buck into her mouth as she starts to suck him off, tongue pressed firmly to the underside of his cock as she bobs her head. her fingers against her clit hold the same rhythm, and he’s staring down, the sight driving him wild. he can’t stop the sound spilling from him and she’d have it no other way.

eventually she lets that free hand join her mouth, stroking up from the base of his cock to meet her lips. he keeps getting stuck on her name, unable to choke out the second syllable, and then he devolves into another language all together, something rough and older than the stars above, and every single thing is shoving chloe closer to release, the rope of desire pulling tighter in her gut, so she swallows him down as far as she can go just to hear him shout, barely acknowledging the sound of the night table hitting the other wall as his wings snap out to display their vulnerable undersides.

“close.” it’s less of a word and more of an expressive inhale. she is too. she circles her clit with more vigor, only pulling off his cock long enough to say  _ yeah, yeah _ before she’s sucking him back down. she comes at the choked moan he makes, shivering through it, motion faltering, but she knows it’s the knowledge that she came sucking him off that shoves him right over the edge after her, spilling salty against her tongue with a ragged noise.

she swallows, leans back in to lick him clean, and he  _ whimpers _ , his eyes finally fluttering shut. she places a tender kiss to his hip, his chest, his jaw, the corner of his mouth; he wastes no time turning his head and licking into her mouth, making a pleased sound at the taste of himself on her tongue. 

she settles next to him, and they both catch their breath. he’s sticky with sweat and oil but chloe can’t find it in her to care as she curls up beside him. she’s pillowed on a wing, and she reaches to stroke her fingers through his mess of curls, watching his dazed expression soften into something else; his mouth curves, and he turns his head towards her with half closed eyes.

that looks better, chloe thinks - right now there’s not a tense muscle on him; he finally lowers his arms and circles them around her, pressing his lips to her temple.

“quite the welcome party,” he says, his words lazily slurred. she taps him on the nose.

“only the best for you.”

he chuckles. “you spoil me.” he yawns. “you’re up next. just give me a minute to recharge.”

“uh huh. a minute.”

“mm,” is his eloquent reply. she watches as his eyes fade back to bookcase brown before they close, and only shortly after does his face slacken enough in sleep for him to stop smiling. the shimmer of his wings casts him in soft shadows, and chloe is so in love she can’t sleep, only trace a few feathers and thank no one but themselves that he comes home and she can hold him, if only for a little while. 

**Author's Note:**

> blame lassie
> 
> incalyscent-writes.tumblr.com


End file.
